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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670028">Handwork</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea'>QuailiTea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gen, Hobbies, Sewing, bedrest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:14:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One of you people released a plot bunny about Jack knowing how to sew and it being charming</p>
<p>I wrote it. I hope you are charmed as well</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher &amp; Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Handwork</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Phryne had noticed his hands in all sorts of contexts, of course. Dwarfing her whiskey tumblers and the pieces on the draughts board. Adjusting his tie when flustered. Sliding around her wrist or her arm while trying to make a point about something. Fastening and unfastening all sorts of buttons, pins and whatnots. The deft precision of fingers on the keys of her piano, drawing notes with exquisite skill (there was a time she had felt rather jealous of that piano).</p>
<p>But Jack was in her parlor now, all at home in a straight-backed chair he had arranged himself. He was down to his shirtsleeves, the glint of a sewing needle in his hand, with the firelight behind him, the light at his elbow throwing his cheekbones into such sharp relief that they might be dangerous – it was a different sort of noticing altogether. She observed quietly, enjoying the inner sparkle that came with discovering something about a lover. Like a new color flashing in an opal when you set it in a different light. The muscles of his forearms worked in small, rhythmic twists as he placed stitch after stitch, and Phryne lavished a little time watching the light play across them, the soft set to his eyes as he worked, the delicate purse of his lips as he encountered and vanquished some difficulty. The needle darted in and out over a creamy-colored something; she couldn’t see what it was. But Jack was stitching as fast as she’d ever seen Dot do it, and the bit of thread he was working with was thin as spiderweb. At long last, he gave the needle a twist, knotted his thread, and clipped it off with a pair of scissors he had produced seemingly out of nowhere, then looked up directly at her. His smile was small, but knowing.</p>
<p>“I’ve surprised you.”</p>
<p>“You have,” she said, and floated into the parlor to sit next to him. “Though the talent of your fingers is notorious in many contexts, I didn’t know you could sew.”</p>
<p>“I can. But this is embroidery.” The smile was becoming a smirk, but Phryne merely leaned over to look at what he had been creating. “It was a prescription from an insistent nurse, to keep my hands busy mending while the rest of me knit itself back together after the war.”</p>
<p>“Jack,” she said, turning over the fabric, “this is far more than plain mending.” The tiny pleated linen cap under her hand was covered in bursts of stitched and knotted flowers, white-on-white, with trails of leaves running down the thin bonnet strings. The texture was delicate and lacy, and even her unskilled eye could see it was expertly made.</p>
<p>“It’s for the baby,” he said, parking his needle into an envelope of canvas that she had not seen lying on the table. “I heard Collins consoling his wife about the baptismal outfit not being ready in time, so I promised to get it sorted.”</p>
<p>“Oh Jack,” Miss Fisher began, and then stopped, and stifled a laugh. “Dot will be either utterly dumbstruck, or slightly jealous. Possibly both.”</p>
<p>“So, you think she’ll like it?” There was such a tender burst of emotion in her heart at the plain hopefulness of the question that Phryne couldn’t help herself. She twined her hand over his fingers and lifted them to her lips for a kiss.</p>
<p>“I’m certain she will. She will probably also cry.” At his expression, Phryne tucked his other hand around her waist so that she could slide herself from sitting next to him to sitting in his lap directly. “Seeing as it’s lovelier than half the stuff I’ve seen in shops.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you ought to let me finish then,” Jack replied, his voice murmuring as if from faraway. “I’ve still got one bouquet left.” She did not move. He retrieved the needlecase and waggled it in her eyeline. “I am armed, you know.”</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “These were very expensive.” He laid them back on the end table and wound his hand back around her waist, his senses drinking in the overwhelming experience of a thoroughly-charmed Phryne Fisher perched in his lap.</p>
<p>“Besides,” she added, “if you’re going to prick me, I’d wager you’re going to use a different weapon.” The chuckle, when it came, was almost buried in her chemise.</p>
<p>“Would you prefer I work on this hem of yours, Miss Fisher?” His only answer was an enthusiastic shifting of his hands to more intimate places, and he resolved, with a few remaining shreds of sense, to pick back up early the next morning, when she would certainly not be awake and distracting him.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“Oh Inspector,” Dot all but sobbed, “it’s beautiful. You did this- all this work- the whole thing? For- for us?” Her fingers caressed the gown and bonnet in the little green box, barely daring to lift them free.</p>
<p>“Collins mentioned you had bought new, but weren’t sure if you’d have the time to do the finishing.” He shrugged his shoulders diffidently, but Dot wasn’t fooled. She struggled up from her chair, eight-and-a-half months’ worth of pregnancy impeding her progress, and flung her arms around him.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she said. “Hugh’s mother ‘lost’ their baptism outfit when he converted, and Lola sold ours. I was so worried…” She swallowed down a lump that contained as much family history as it did emotion, and fell silent.</p>
<p>“Give me a little more warning next time, and we can collaborate on everything,” he said with a smile as she stepped back, wiping her eyes. “Collins said you had some grand ideas for patterns for the edging of the gown, so I did everything but that. If we get it laid out, you could finish in double time. What were you thinking of?”</p>
<p>“Well!” Dot sat back down in her chair and rummaged through a stack of magazines in the basket near her feet, “I actually was thinking, if you look at this lace here…” Jack pulled his chair alongside, and Phryne, lurking around the corner, heard the unmistakable cadence of two experienced stitchers comparing notes. She nodded firmly to herself and went to call Mr. Butler. Dot had been having a terrible last few weeks, confined almost completely to bed to protect the pregnancy, so anything that could pull her from her doctor-enforced boredom was going to be enshrined and gilded, courtesy of Phryne Fisher.  She was hanging up the telephone when Jack emerged on a quest for supplies, and she held up a hand as he edged around her in the Collins’ narrow hall.</p>
<p>“Before you go anywhere, Jack,” she said, "Mr. Butler is on his way with an extravagant basket of dinner, but when you do get finished here, you should know I’ll be waiting up for you.” His puzzlement was not banished even with a very firm kiss that pressed him against the wall and made him catch his breath when he broke free.</p>
<p>“That was appreciated,” he said, flushing, “but I’m not certain what prompted it.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she said, eyes shining, “it was your clever hands, I’m sure.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The link that was shared that started me on this whole idea:</p>
<p>https://theconversation.com/stitching-lives-back-together-mens-rehabilitation-embroidery-in-wwi-76326</p></blockquote></div></div>
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